The Prodigal Troll

by Charles Coleman Finlay

  "Please continue," Culufre said. His mellifluous voice sounded like it came more from the sky than from any man. "You may kill him if you like."

  Maggot straightened, tossing down the limp head as he would an apple core or empty shell. The fire of his anger had burned clean away, the fuel that fed it exhausted, and he felt no more. He dropped the sword and let it clatter on the stones. "There is more to the world than stupid killing."

  The Baron tilted his head back and laughed. When he stopped to speak again, his voice was as solid as stone. "You know, don't you, that only the consort of the Baroness may wear the Baron's sigil?"

  He meant the dagger-toothed lion.

  It hurt Maggot to wear it, because it reminded him of Portia. He unfastened the gold chain at his neck and slipped the mantle from his shoulders. He extended his hand, offering it to Culufre. "It was given to me, but it was intended for you. Let it go where it belongs."

  The Baron lifted a hand to his chin, as if considering the offer, then made the smallest motion with but one finger. A man hurried forward to take the lion's cape. With his hand resting once more below his mouth, Culufre said, "Name yourself not, but request a favor and I shall grant it."

  There was a small, excited buzz among the gathered crowd.

  Maggot did not know what to ask for.

  "If you request to leave here safely," the Baron suggested, "I shall have you escorted to the edge of my lady's realm. Or anywhere else within the empire that you may wish to go."

  Maggot considered this. "I came here with my friend, Bran, because he wished to speak to you. I ask only that you listen to him."

  The Baron rolled his tongue around his mouth as if savoring the taste of this. "Come then, Bran. I've seen you. Your friend has just traded his life to let you speak."

  The two knights holding Bran thrust him forward. As soon as they let go, he dropped to his knees at the Baron's feet and touched his forehead to the ground.

  "Rise," Culufre said. "I expect no knight of mine to come to me bent and bare-necked."

  Bran remained where he was, face down. "I no longer wear the braid. Naked the peasants placed me in the flames to kill me, and naked I was carried out again, a new man. I ask to come again into your service, as a lowly shepherd if it suits you, fit only to work among untutored boys until I prove myself worthy of your trust."

  "I advise against it," Sebius said, his high voice wavering. "This man is a traitor. He betrayed us once, and meant to betray us here tonight."

  "I think not," Culufre answered. "Captain Bran was alleged a traitor only because he could not make a young woman love a foolish boy several years her junior." Acrysy started to protest, but the Baron swung his hand up in a slapping gesture. The woman in the dove costume standing behind him made a small movement with her hand, as if stroking his shoulder from a distance, and then he said, more softly, "Silence, boy."

  "If you will but listen," Sebius said, "you will find that your progeny, the only son of your dear lady, and heir through her to your titles-most glorious and munificent Baron, Lord Culufre, Lion of the Eastern Mountains, Emerald of the Empire, dear brother-has a valid point."

  "Enough. You, Sebius, heard this man speak. This is not Captain Bran, the knight who once served us, but a peasant with shorn head who seeks to serve us now." He paused, a smile spreading slowly across his exposed mouth. "A shepherd in wolf's clothing, if you will."

  A light laughter rippled through the crowd, like the patter of raindrops on leaves.

  "My brother-"

  "He will be entered into the household staff, where he can be watched constantly by those most loyal to me for any sign of treason. In time, if he proves himself, we may request of the Empress the opportunity for him to become a eunuch. He was trained once by one that is well regarded. This is my judgment, may Verlogh take vengeance on me alone if it proves wrong."

  At these words, Sebius dropped his head. "Yes, my lord."

  "Rise, Bran. And welcome into my service."

  Bran climbed to his feet, keeping his head bowed. "My lord is both merciful and just."

  "However could I be both?" Culufre asked. "It is better by far that I am strong. Do not lie to me again if you wish to rise in my service." He hesitated, staring at Maggot with a puzzled expression.

  Maggot suddenly felt someone moving toward him, as if a long tether rounding his chest, years slack except for the slightest tugs, were now drawn perfectly tight.

  He turned his head expecting-hoping-to see Portia.

  The crowd parted at the passage of a lioness, as glorious and extravagant in her costume as the Baron, flanked by women as the Baron was by knights. The Baroness.

  The lioness's golden, silver-whiskered visage concealed her face, but her chin trembled. A small, blue velvet bag hung from a chain about her neck. She clutched it tightly in one white-knuckled fist and pointed her other shaking hand at Maggot.

  "It's him," she said, her voice quaking.

  Culufre stepped quickly to her side, took her left hand, and stroked it gently. "There, my dear, my sweet, Elysse. What is it that makes you overwrought?"

  "It's him." Her eyes stayed fixed on Maggot's face. "After all these years. His appearance is exactly like his father's."

  Maggot leaned back, trying to break the pull of that invisible tether.

  "Really?" Culufre was saying. "I rather thought, just a moment ago, that he favored you."

  "This is no jape, my lord consort. I was bonded to the nursemaid and my baby while I was pregnant, and I have always felt the tug of that lost boy."

  His voice went soft. "And we severed that bond to save your life when child and nursemaid perished in the fire-"

  She yanked her hand away from him. Slipping the tiny velvet bag off her neck, she thrust it out blindly. "Fetch me my wizard. He can tell me the truth."

  Several women departed, returning to the castle.

  At this distance, the velvet had no scent for Maggot, but he did not like the smell of things. His teeth were on edge.

  "Elysse," Culufre said soothingly.

  She elevated her chin toward the prize at the end of her arm. "This contains the cord that bound him to me and a piece of the meat that fed him in the womb-the wizard may use it to prove that this is my son." Her eyes blazed at Maggot, and her voice dropped very low. "I always knew that you still lived."

  "My mother was a troll," Maggot told her.

  Someone in the crowd stifled a snicker.

  "Don't speak such wicked things," the Baroness said.

  "She was a very good mother." Maggot turned his head, scanning the crowd of dumb, bedraggled creatures. His sparrowhawk was not among them. He looked at his own greycat costume, pulling it off to pile at his feet. "She fed me and kept me warm, and would be ashamed at all this stupidness."

  The women returned with a clean-shaven man whose blue-black robes were embroidered with stars in silver thread. Maggot saw his head surrounded by a sandy light flecked with streaks of umber, just as Banya's had been.

  He faltered at the sight of Maggot. "M'lady summoned me."

  A small group had followed the wizard from the castle. Portia was among them, her mask settled firmly over her face, her winged robes folded closed about her. At the sight of her, the other faces that encircled Maggot-Bran's patient relief, Tubat's dazed and bloody anger, the wizard's anxious lean forward-all faded like the stars at dawn.

  Before the Baroness could answer the wizard, Culufre raised his hand. When he spoke, a strain ran through his beautifully timbred voice like a crack in a tree. "Consider the wisdom of this, Elysse. If the answer is no, it will be no forever."

  She took a short step back.

  Culufre wheeled toward Maggot. "Stay. Stay and serve me, as your friend Bran does. We will give you a place in the castle, the use of all the wealth that you desire."

  Maggot laughed at him-a deep, resonant belly rumble-and at that sound the tug in his chest vanished. "You offer me a small thing. The mountain ranges are the walls of my
castle, and all the riches of the trees and rivers are mine. You offer me an acorn when I already have an oak."

  "Stay," the Baroness echoed, pale fingers at her throat.

  But Maggot watched Portia, waiting for her to step forward, to speak, to show any indication that she had changed her decision toward him.

  "You gave your first gift to Bran," Culufre said. "Now I give you a second. There will not be a third. What offer would you like? Request any favor and I shall grant it." His sword rattled in its scabbard as he placed his palm upon the pommel.

  Portia glided backward, her head bowed, arms crossing her chest to grip her feathered shoulders.

  "It is not yours to give," Maggot answered. "I would have this be a place where people choose their own paths, and not take those forced upon them. And it will never be."

  He turned away. The people in their masks and the soldiers and servants parted before him, as Lady Culufre's plaintive cry rose behind.

  "My poor baby, oh my poor, lost baby."

  He left the false day of the castle and crossed the bridge into a comforting, uncertain darkness where all trails were his to choose.

  don't know about other writers, but getting my first novel published feels like the work of a community because I simply could not have done it alone. I have many people to thank. Gordon Van Gelder, editor of Fantasy & Science Fiction (www.fsfmag.com), and John O'Neill, editor of Black Gate (www.blackgate.com), published sections of this novel in their magazines. Members of the Online Writing Workshop for Science Fiction, Fantasy, and Horror (http://sff .onlinewritingworkshop.com), the Sock Monkey Parade, and the 2003 Blue Heaven novel writing retreat gave me critiques that made this a much better book. Julia Hessler, S. K. S. Perry, Lisa Deguchi, and Catherine M. Morrison provided essential encouragement and support during different drafts. Marsha Sisolak caught more errors in more versions than anyone else. Deanna Hoak, my copyeditor, corrected many of the errors that remained. Robert Sinclair contributed useful insights into large primate behaviors early on. John Joseph Adams read new additions critically at the very end. Emily Buckell persuaded me that The Prodigal Troll was, indeed, the right title. Paul and Leann Ulrich graciously contributed a weekend retreat where I could make my final revisions uninterrupted. Thank you, all.

  Anyone up for the next book?